


Two Rays and a Dead Guy for Hanukkah

by rayshant_bestopt



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Hanukkah, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Len, Jewish Ray, M/M, dystopic future, fractured bones, latke discourse, physical injury, ptsd mention, some inclusion of Christmas stuff, time loop Coldatom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-25 21:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13221369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayshant_bestopt/pseuds/rayshant_bestopt
Summary: When Ray gets stuck in a crapsack future, he finds himself with a dead guy for company.or When Leonard Snart gets stuck with a Raymond from the past.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Secret Santa Coldatom for  killingclaudio  \-- it got away from me a little. I hope it's okay!
> 
> This story is super-canon divergent, as I started putting it together before Zari joined the team, Firestorm dissolved, and Mallus was introduced.

Awareness came back slowly to Ray, the scent of warm apples and cinnamon slowly tempting him into consciousness. It reminded him of winter, of family, and he brightened internally as he tried to follow it. 

It seemed to be a cruel joke, however, as his other senses began returning as well. Cold, and wet, and pain. A dull throb in his bones gradually increased in intensity. The warm apply smell was overpowered by a damp mold. Ray squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall what had brought him to this moment. The sudden realization forced them open, but was followed by a groan as the jerky spasm accompanying it set off a sharp stabbing pain racking throughout his body that he couldn’t remember being familiar with since his time in a Russian gulag. The sensation forced his eyes shut again, but his mind whirled: was he being tortured now? 

He remembered the mission: the team chasing after Damien Darhke and an anachronism in a fluxing future; fighting a hoard of robot things (not _his_ design this time, fortunately for the tech whiz's conscience); and some sort of light exploding around them, along with a low buzz pulsing _everywhere_ , that caused his suit to malfunction. Not just malfunction—it had just _stopped_. Ray remembered the panic he'd felt as he fell, the metal surrounding him dragging him through the air like the same dead weight as the brainless automatons around him. He vaguely recalled a voice calling his name through the whistling against his ears. It must have been Nate, he surmised, with the team having broken up to try to penetrate the Casino’s security. He hoped his friend was faring better than Ray at the moment. 

As he processed the events that led him here (wherever here was), Ray’s ears caught the quick stride of heavy boots moving to his side. The floor protested as the person knelt closer, and Ray felt cool hands carefully but forcefully push him back against whatever padding was currently acting as a mattress, gently fluttering over what he realized was a thin blanket covering his almost naked body as it lightly inspected his form. The touch felt vaguely familiar, but the Legend’s brow wrinkled in his mind’s eye as he tried to place it. Not jerky and panicked like Nate, or rough like Mick; too long to be either Amaya or Sara, and yet more delicate than either halves of Firestorm. Which meant they didn’t belong to his team, and yet Ray swore he recognized the subtle, meticulous nature of the fingers that inspected him. He just needed more information, or time.

And then the owner spoke.

“Don’t. You’ve just had a hell of a fall, and we’ve lost contact with the team. And I’ll be damned if I spent all that time in the kitchen peeling those stupid apples just so you could die on me now.” The voice was quiet, and low with irritation, but Ray heard that voice—a voice he’d know anywhere—and the last thing he wanted to do was stay as he was. He struggled stubbornly against the weight of his eyelids to force the things back open. He had to see for himself, to know.

Leonard Snart’s piercing blue eyes remained fixed on him as Ray’s gaze slowly cleared. It must have been night, because the neon lights of the far-off Casino bouncing off the grayish walls was the only allowance of visibility that gave any discernability to his surroundings. But that didn’t change anything: there was no way it could be anybody else kneeling beside him.

Except it _had_ to be, and Ray struggled anew only to be carefully pinned again by the older man as his body wrenched against the damage from a hundred different places.

“I’m serious Raymond. You hit that water hard, and this isn’t the movies. Another ten feet up and you would have killed yourself.” He huffed quietly. “What were you even doing out here? You said so yourself that your suit was no match for those Neutralizers. You should have left it to Jax and the Professor.”

“Neutralizers? What—how—who are you?” There were too many questions in his already-spinning head, giving Ray no end of trouble in his attempts to keep up with all of the information being thrown at him. 

Snart, for his part, narrowed his eyes quizzically in response to the question Ray had settled on. “Who am I?” 

Good—it was slightly comforting to not be the only person between them that was confused. His satisfaction was short-lived, however, as Snart's gaze turned critical, as if concerned for brain damage. Considering Ray was talking to a dead man while dressed in boxer briefs and a blanket, though, maybe that wasn’t so far off. 

“You don’t know who I am?” Ray might have been imagining it, but it sounded like a little hurt was laced in the incredulous drawl. 

“Leonard Snart is dead,” he insisted, though whether to himself or the imposing figure in front of him, Ray wasn’t one-hundred percent sure. “And he definitely doesn’t smell like applesauce. Is that lemon?” He was babbling, his mind trying to process the insane and suspicious circumstances that worked to dam against the burgeoning hope in his chest at the sight of his former teammate. But the Legends by now had more than enough enemies with tricks up their sleeves, like creating a form Ray would trust in order manipulate him. Enemies that could now have an Atom suit and an injured Ray at their mercy: but he wasn’t going to betray his team, no matter what the cost. Definitely not for an insult to his friend's (well, former teammate, at least) memory. 

The man wearing Captain Cold’s face balked a little at Ray’s retort, confusion flickering across his features. Ray suddenly felt much more exposed as gray-blue eyes studied his body, heating Ray’s ears as he wished for another few layers. 

Fake-Snart’s eyes snapped back to his. “Where are you from?” he demanded. “Or, more accurately, when?” The pressure of his hand suddenly lifted from his chest, but Ray could still feel its presence as it remained frozen inches above his skin.

“Uhhh?” Ray’s mind scrambled with confusion at the sharp turn the conversation had taken, the accusatory tone of the question turning him honest. “We just left 2017—well, actually, we’ve made a couple stops. We had to escape Rip and the Time Bureau, because—” 

“Raymond, shut up.” Ray’s mouth snapped shut out of habit as Fake-Snart suddenly turned his back on him, standing and storming away. Goosebumps prickled on top of his already-cold skin at the sudden distance, and a vice grip took hold of his lungs as Ray’s eyeballs strained futilely to keep him in his periphery. He knew Snart, or whoever this was, was right about needing to stay still—every beat of his heart caused a new throb that only heightened at the very thought of moving. But Ray was afraid to be alone, and he trusted Leonard Snart. He wanted so badly for this to be Leonard Snart with him—a part of his team that had his back, wouldn’t abandon him in these desolate ruins of the future. 

Whoever this guy was, he hadn’t left the room yet. Ray could hear the agitated boot treads pacing out of sight along the far wall, could practically hear the wheels of his mind churn. “Snart?” The needy inflection in his voice felt foreign combined with the name, and a part of Ray worried if he wasn’t stepping directly into a trap by letting his guard down even this much. How much had it taken for Legion-of-Doom-Snart to worm his way into Mick’s head, after all? And that had ended with the Legion getting the Spear, and all of their future-selves dying and breaking time to save the world. 

Although, Ray admitted, those could be considered very different circumstances: Mick had been hallucinating Snart before his past-self appeared, and the two were partners, family, while Ray and Snart had been…well, teammates, at least, for a shorter time. Maybe friends? Ray certainly had developed a bit more than just admiration for the man in their time together; while Snart...hadn’t seemed to be opposed to Ray’s presence. Regardless, it was obviously a very different dynamic between the two groups of men. And yet Mick surely wouldn’t trust this guy at all, after everything that happened. So neither should Ray...right? 

The footsteps paused, and Ray’s breath stopped, eyes aching as the muscles strained again to see through the side of his skull from his place on the floor. “Leonard?” he called out, a quiet panic escaping his chest into his tone that he couldn’t hide. Was this man just going to _leave_ him? 

Soft and quick like a cat, the bootsteps crept close, their owner exhaling into the stuffy night air as Ray’s dead teammate came into view. He looked tired, although Ray did recognize it was night, and Fake-Snart had probably dragged Ray up a ruin of a complex, likely with crooks and thugs lingering to make sleep difficult. 

Fake-Snart silently stared down at him, and Ray’s eyes lingered to watch him pursing his lips in thought. A muted crash rumbled from out the window, and a noise that Ray hoped wasn't lazer fire. The blue eyes flickered from the direction of the noise and back to Ray. “We’re going to have to move,” he concluded aloud, and Ray frowned, not disagreeing but uncertain of how well he’d be able to manage. Apparently Fake-Snart had mulled over the same thing, if the wrinkle in his brow was anything to go by, but he merely set his jaw and hunched over Ray’s stiff form to carefully guide him to a sit. 

Ray tensed as his nerves and muscles agonized with the effort, a sensation that only magnified as he got a better look at the damage he’d endured in his fall. Fake-Snart had apparently splinted one lower leg, as well as wrapping strips of one of his own shirts around his chest and arm to hold pressure to something that had begun to stain through. Not to mention the aching red marks he’d received from banging around in his exosuit and hitting the water. He couldn’t even begin to fathom what his back looked like as every inch of him was on fire as Fake-Snart helped cover him in his damp parka. 

“My suit?” He couldn’t see the familiar material, but his voice was hopeful at the idea. The Atom suit could make things a hundred times easier for them both, as well as offering him some sort of protection if he was right about Fake-Snart and a trap. 

A curt headshake was the reply. “Neutralizer took it out.” He held up a hand to preempt whatever words he expected to come from Ray’s open mouth. “Those Goodyear blimps floating around—they blast out high-energy EMPs to take out anybody or anything in range. Which we can ponder about later; for now, all you need to know is both your suit and my gun are dead weight and better left behind.” 

“No,” Ray insisted, features wide and worried. Was this a ploy to steal his tech? Or the dwarf star that powered it? “I was able to reconstruct my suit before, to signal the ship back in the 1950s—I can find a way here. I’m sure of it.” He knew it was a huge risk to carry around even more of a load, considering he wasn’t sure he could walk on his own and even _less_ how he’d charge his suit back to working condition, but Ray couldn’t bear the thought of losing his armor again. “I can find something to jump it, I’m sure. I’ll just carry it for now. It’s not that heavy—"

He leaned forward to shift to his feet and regretted the decision instantly, even if Fake-Snart’s hands reaching around to catch him before gravity and pain dropped him flat on his back felt oddly warm and comforting. 

“No way, Boy Scout: I’ve got doubts whether you can carry your own weight right now, forget the suit.” 

Ray’s eyes dropped to the floor, miserable but resigned to the logic. Even if Fake-Snart was just trying to steal his equipment; he was also right that there was no way for Ray to try to protect it in his current state.

Fake-Snart’s grip on him shifted as the man’s shoulder dropped slightly, and Ray glanced over at him as he huffed out a frustrated breath. “Look, we’ll find a better spot to lay low, and then I’ll try to come back for your suit; see if you can salvage anything from it. Okay?” 

Ray’s rational mind was still dubious, warning him that this wasn’t his teammate because _that_ Leonard Snart, the one he cared about and could trust, was dead. That this Fake-Snart was some imposter likely taking him somewhere to steal his suit or hold him as leverage in some other to-be-revealed nefarious plot.

But the level of agony radiating through his body, coupled with the fear of being lost in a hostile future without his team or any defenses, outweighed the suspicions his mind carried for now, and Ray merely nodded, allowing Fake-Snart to carefully hoist him to his feet and brace the majority of his weight against his side as they began limping from the room.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been five days since they'd lost the team, Ray thought. Maybe. Warmer under ratty-but-dry clothes that Fake-Snart had procured (along with the parka he insisted Ray keep), he kept falling unconscious as his body tried to pull itself back together. Ray hadn’t realized how much he’d taken Gideon’s advanced healing technology for granted until he was stuck in the middle of futuristic nowhere and forced to mend the old-fashioned way. Fake-Snart mostly let him be, only waking him to move on to a new hideout, or eat, or redress his injuries, but as Ray started regaining coherence for longer stretches of time, he also seemed willing to answer some questions. Ray quickly learned that this part of Wynnetian Bay Syndicate (the corporation-country thing that had once been part of the western United States) was established within the fragmentation of the discovery of Time Travel itself: that before the tight regulations of the Time Masters, time was manipulated and traded like currency, leaving everyone in constant danger of Quakes and Aberrations. The Time Council had quickly put a lid on it, but a pocket still remained in this blind spot, which explained why Darhk had hidden here. This particular part of the world seemed to manage stifling any time mishaps by investing in cheap drones and, more importantly, Neutralizers around the ruins of the city, blasting high-frequency EMPs at irregular intervals around the borders of its magnanimous Hearts Casino, which was where its “civilized society” resided. The dilapidated high rises that the two men currently found themselves navigating were, Fake-Snart assured him, therefore left to the poverty-stricken who would be too scared to help them, or criminals that would sooner kill them than strike an alliance. 

“So, kind of like the last fragmentation we visited,” Ray chuckled weakly, eyes shifting over to watch carefully as the other man unwrapped his splint. Fake-Snart had only griped once about the absence of Gideon since rescuing him, but it was enough for Ray’s nagging suspicions to push their way back to the forefront of his mind. When he didn’t reply, Ray continued, “Although I think I preferred the Wild West, truthfully. I certainly had a lot more fun being a Deputy in Salvation with a six-shooter than unarmed in a dystopic future.”

An amused snort carried to Ray’s ears. “Couldn’t have left that much of an impression, Boy Scout, if you can’t even remember promoting yourself to Sheriff,” Fake-Snart retorted, shifting his gaze from his work so he could quirk a pointed eyebrow at Ray.

“I didn’t promote myself—the sheriff gave me his badge!” Ray countered immediately, before his snapped his lips shut and felt his ears heat up. Oops.

The blue eyes watching him remained amused, however. “You really suck at tests, Raymond,” Fake-Snart drawled smugly, emphasizing his point by prying apart the splint holding Ray’s lower leg, causing the former billionaire to hiss as the cold air pounced on his newly exposed skin. 

He’d been trying to get a bead on who this person was for the last however long they'd been together, dropping modified little bits and pieces of the team’s past into the conversation on the assumption that Darhk’s people wouldn’t know any details about the team’s adventures—things like freezing in the cargo hold and stealing a gumball and playing sniper for Ray’s gambit—while the real Snart’s memory wouldn’t have any knowledge of anything that had happened since the Oculus. But this Snart always caught him when he changed any facts about their excursions, as if expecting the test and taking a special sort of glee in correcting Ray and mocking the man’s faculties. And yet…he knew things that happened later too: he knew Amaya and Nate and Sara being the captain and the Time Bureau. He loved to tease Ray about having worked on a dating app to no end, though he didn’t engage quite as much when Ray brought up the JSA or aliens. Ray didn’t know what to make of it—despite _wanting_ to believe the man providing a soft jab at his nerdiness for walking on the moon was who he said, the fact of the matter is that Leonard Snart had died long before that, and there was no way he would have any recollection about this, much less be talking about it with Ray now. 

So now Ray sat, still stuck in time, reflecting on his lack of progress while Fake-Snart partook in his routine of checking his injuries and putting new bandages over his wounds. Ray found watching to be a sufficient distraction from the discomfort, his scientific curiosity combined with a wariness of what the other man was up to. However, so many days had passed, and despite a lack of decent medical supplies or the ability to return to the Waverider’s sterile interior, the man with Snart’s face had stayed, seemingly successful in helping Ray slowly mend.

“You know, Raymond, you could always just ask me.” The words were quiet beneath the ripping of the dingy cloth the thief had managed to dig up for bandages, and a little bitter, as if the owner couldn’t believe that he actually had to suggest it in the first place.

“Ask you what?” he said, cheeks burning slightly at the idea of being so easy to read. Although, to be fair, none of the millions of relevant questions seemed like the right thing to voice to either a real or fake Leonard Snart.

“Any of it: how I got back, why I’m in this time, what I think of Rip’s new time lackeys. We both know you don’t really believe I’m me, or you would have been babbling like an idiot for days now, instead of shoe-horning in random stories about the Good Old Days. So why don’t you just ask instead of embarrassing yourself waiting for me to mess up?”

Ray hesitated, not sure if he should take the bait; but hell, it had been almost a week and he wasn’t going anywhere. Why not? “How are you alive?” It seemed like the easiest, if not most obvious, question to start with.

The other man relaxed infinitesimally, shoulders shrugging casually in response. “Not a clue, honestly,” he admitted. “You guys picked me up on a mission, and it was…confusing, to say the least. I think the team settled on your idea that when you broke time that it must have included the thing with the Oculus, though personally I’m with Sara that the fact that the Oculus was in the Vanishing Point, _outside_ of time, makes that unlikely. Regardless…” Fake-Snart exhaled held out an open palm as he leaned away from Ray’s torso, his eyes moving from the bandage to the brown ones watching him, “Voila, I guess.” 

“So, you’re an anachronism?” 

“That’s the general consensus, at this point. I think we all just got tired of thinking about it.” 

“And you’ve been traveling on the Waverider ever since?” 

“There was…a small window, in between.” Ray raised an eyebrow curiously as Snart’s eyes purposely focused away from him, and he opened his mouth to press. “I’m not going to explain it, Raymond. It’s complicated, and at this point it could change your future, my past, if you know too much. I wasn’t even supposed to leave the ship while we were here as it was.” 

“Then why did you?” 

“Because I thought you were in trouble.” Pink lips formed a tight line, combined with a heavy pause as if they regretted their words, before Fake-Snart continued, “I mean, you always have a way of finding it, and I sort of owed it to you to keep you from dying, for keeping an eye on Mick while I was gone.” 

Ray’s dirty nails dug into the soggy packing boxes that Maybe?-Snart had flattened together as a makeshift bed. He cursed himself for being goaded into asking anything, because the answers were so over the top insane, and yet just plausible enough in Ray’s world that he desperately wanted to believe them as true. Mick had been floating through various states of PTSD since the rigors of Time Travel had been thrust upon him: since he’d lost his partner. The team, at a loss for how to deal with his stubborn denial, often just left him as stupid or lazy, but Ray had gotten a decent look when Snart had been alive, when Mick’s brilliance had shown through since, and couldn’t unsee the mask the man was wearing in an attempt to hide scars that long sleeves couldn’t. And yet Snart wouldn’t have known that—wouldn’t have seen Mick mostly pushing Ray away like he always did, only accepting the team on his own terms. Ray himself wasn’t even sure he was helping. So was this just some manipulation on his mind? Or was it possible that, with all of the anachronisms bursting into the Time Stream, one of them could touch right before their teammate had been taken from them? That they could have possibly, as Nate had so brilliantly declared, messed things up for the better this time? 

Ray cleared his throat to brush the awkward feelings from his thoughts. “Well, I mean, I _was_ in trouble. So thanks,” he finally said. Even if this was a trap, he supposed he should be a little grateful that he hadn’t been left to drown, could potentially be saved still in present circumstances. 

Maybe-Snart shook his head. “Not you. You would have been fine. You’re _going_ to be fine…” The words trailed off quietly as the man turned his focus back to Ray’s injuries, and Ray wasn’t sure if they had been meant for him or the man speaking them.


	3. Chapter 3

Another week had come and gone before Ray, staring at the light-polluted night sky in the half-exposed remains of a loft apartment, gathered up his courage to ask another serious question amidst the series of logistical and frivolous ones. 

“So, you’re from the future?” he asked, fingers poking into a sticky carton of something Maybe-Snart had managed to dig up that tasted vaguely like Mandarin chicken. 

The sideways glance that met his gaze expressed a very specific opinion about the question, but since he remained silent, Ray took that as an invitation to continue. “So you’d know how long we were going to be stuck here?” Maybe-Snart’s eyebrow arched, and he added, “I just mean, you know—it’s been a couple of weeks now? And we haven’t seen any sign of the others, so either they’re in trouble at the Casino, in which case we should be heading that way. Or they _were_ in trouble and had to leave, and we’ll need to find a way to let them know where we are when they get back?” He glanced at the pile of scrap metal that used to be his Atom suit. Maybe-Snart had recovered it, and taken to carrying the dismantled pieces in a rucksack he’d must have stolen, if the holes in it (that were suspiciously the size of bullets) were anything to go by. “Unless that’s where we’re going _now_ , because you remember when the team found us? Although you said I was there when we picked you up, so maybe someone told you? Did _I_ tell you? Because that had to have happened in the future, which means I _did_ get rescued at some point, or _do_ , I guess, so I just was wondering—” 

“Raymond, stop.” Ray’s mouth clamped shut gratefully: he’d been stranded for extended periods of time twice now—thrice if you counted how displaced he’d felt back in 2017 after the team had disbanded, and the fear of having it happen again was obviously starting to show. “They’re going to come back: you’re going to be back annoying everyone again soon enough. Trust me.” 

It should have felt like empty words—a vague platitude to keep him calm. But Ray's lips quirked of their own volition, and the other man flashed his signature smirk with that confident-borderline-arrogant twist, and it consoled Ray more than he would have thought. 

“You know,” Ray cleared his throat as Maybe-Snart pulled his gaze from the open window over toward where he was sitting on the pile of tarp-like material that padded the ground for him. 

“Maybe you should get some rest.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Have you even gotten any sleep this whole time?” 

“I’m a criminal, Raymond—I’m used to sleeping with one eye open.” 

“ _Former_ criminal,” Ray corrected automatically. “And you’re not sleeping with one eye open, Snart—you’re sleeping with two eyes open. By which I mean not sleeping at all. And I know we’re basically in a problematic situation right now, but that’s all the more reason you should get some sleep during the downtime.” 

“ _Problematic_ would be putting it lightly,” Incredulous blue eyes fixed on him. “And precisely what downtime are you talking about, Boy Scout? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re hardly out of the woods here.” 

“Exactly, and we both need to be as alert as possible. You’re taking on too much by yourself, Snart—get some rest. I can take over the watch for a little while.”

“You?” Maybe-Snart let out a snort. “Your suit’s fried, you’ve got no weapon, and you can barely walk, Raymond. What are you going to do if someone breaks in? Give them a stern lecture?”

Ray frowned. “Give me your gun—I can hold anyone off long enough for you to wake up and make our escape,” he insisted, holding his hand out stubbornly. If someone had asked, he would argue this was the perfect test-- that the bad guys would never give Ray a loaded gun and leave him in charge. But really, Ray saw the tension in Maybe-Snart's shoulders, the weariness in his expression even as it eyed him skeptically, and he couldn't bring himself to just do _nothing_. Ray wiggled his fingers impatiently. “I can do this, Snart—just trust me.”

Watching him chew his lip as his eyes stared at Ray’s busted tibia, Ray remained still, trying to project confidence into the other’s uncertain thoughts. He could do this, at least. It was a little odd, since the other hadn’t seemed to think Ray was completely useless without his suit before, and he was physically doing a lot better. 

“Two hours.” Ray watched as the combat boots closed the distance between them, one hand fisting the dirty fabric of Ray’s sleeve to keep the younger man’s attention focused on the piercing gaze staring down at him. “You wake me up in _two hours_ , or the _minute_ anything seems off. You got it, Raymond?” 

Ray nodded wordlessly, swallowing thickly as he shuffled off the tarp to make room for his companion. Maybe-Snart eyed the bedding with distaste, but grudgingly sat, relinquishing an old Colt he’d managed to dig up from who knows where. Ray grinned, exchanging it for the signature parka he’d still been wearing, gripping the weapons in both hands and hobbling over to the window where 

Maybe-Snart had been keeping watch, staring back at the other man until he let out a huff of annoyance and slid his feet out in front of him, laying flat on his back and hunching his shoulders to get his parka tighter around him. His head tilted over to Ray. “Two hours,” he repeated gruffly, and, satisfied with Ray’s nod, he crossed his arms tightly in front of his chest and inhaled deeply as he closed his eyes. 

Ray started his watch, carefully reloading the gun and keeping a keen eye out the window. He could see why Maybe-Snart was worried as he watched flashes of light burst out periodically from the Neutralizers, watched people in every imaginable attire scrambling high and low along other buildings on the other side of the river that used to be the Strip. He thought he’d heard footsteps storming up the fire exit near their own hideout, before listening to the banging of an entrance on a different floor and the noises retreating. He couldn’t tell any voices apart, civilian or crook, and he began to worry about potentially shooting an innocent person. The idea of being spotted in one place was also concerning—Ray was limited in his mobility, and he had limited shots in his gun. What if someone came in with a tommy gun or something? 

But glancing at the man-that-might-be Snart on the floor, Ray felt a tug in his stomach. He had to be running on fumes, taking care of him and doing most of the heavy lifting for them both. Ray owed it to him to protect him while he got a couple hours to recharge. 

He managed to keep his mind occupied with thoughts of the Hearts Casino, his eyes following the bright neon glow of the spotlight that stretched out along the dull ruins. The flashing ticker tape informed Ray of the time, and soon enough Maybe-Snart’s two hours were up. Ray turned toward the man, but hesitated at the sight of his form. He didn’t look peaceful really, body hunched and face twitching, but he was definitely still asleep, and their area had seemed quiet for the last half hour—Ray hadn’t seen or heard a soul. He looked back over to the brightly lit tower, at its power source, and wondered if maybe he shouldn’t let his companion rest for a while longer. To feel a little more energetic for the idea Ray starting to hatch. 

Ray was speculating over the movements of a man chasing after a small-ish creature (a cat, maybe? Ray didn’t want to think about it too much, considering what was probably going to happen if the animal was captured), when his ears caught an odd noise. His head snapped to the door, gun raised unsteadily, but there was nothing there. It wasn’t coming from the entrance. 

His wide eyes flitted to the makeshift bed, watching in shock as Maybe-Snart’s body jerked and squirmed, face contorted in what appeared to be pain. He was mumbling, sounds that Ray couldn’t decipher, but the man was obviously distressed. 

“Snart? Hey, Snart.” Ignoring his own injuries, Ray teleported to the padded floor, reaching to grip the sleeping man’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. Leonard? Leonard, wake up; you’re having a nightmare.” 

Snart’s eyes flew open in a panic, unseeing as he twisted around, panting heavily. Ray’s body drifted closer, arms hovering around him and voice low in an attempt to soothe him, and the terrified blue gaze fixed on him. The next instant, Ray grunted in surprise as Snart all but collapsed into him, burying his face against the younger man. 

Ray’s shock overwhelmed his thought process—he’d never seen Snart shaken under _any_ circumstances, and the man had frozen off his _own freaking hand once_. He couldn’t really think of anything to say, so he simply scooted closer, letting his hands comfort his teammate as he tried to pull him from whatever hell-place he’d been trapped in. 

Despite it being the worst circumstances, Ray had to admit, he’d vaguely wondered more than once before what it would feel like, fingers carding through the close-cropped hair. In a purely scientific-curiosity way, he asserted rationally; but now that he was actually doing it, stroking the dark scalp, over the nape of his neck and down the hunch of his shoulders, all while pressed against Snart’s solid form…well, Ray could feel his own body relaxing at the odd sense of ease that accompanied the closeness to the man. 

A few quiet minutes of breathing passed before Snart’s brain seemed to catch up with his surroundings. He leapt backward from Ray like he’d been electrocuted, leaving Ray’s hands hanging empty in the air as he tried to stamp out the hurt that washed over him. 

“Leonard?” Snart’s eyes darted around the room, gathering his wits. “It’s okay—it’s me. It’s Ray. In the future. But we’re okay. Ish.”

Snart didn’t meet Ray’s gaze, but instead stood quickly, striding to the window to stare at the distant ticker-tape. “How long was I out?” he demanded. 

“Um, I’m not sure,” Ray told him hesitantly. “I mean, you just seemed so tired, so I thought—” 

“Two hours, Raymond! I said _two_. How can you be a genius and still not be able to follow simple instructions?” Snart didn't even try to hide his irritation as he pulled himself to his feet, keeping his back turned on Ray as he grumbled about timetables and began hastily shoving their scant supplies into the sack, then scattered the remains of the room to make it appear less lived-in. 

Ray fumbled with apologies as Snart stomped around the room, resignedly remaining seated back on the ground under the glower fixed upon him when he moved to help; but eventually devolved into a guilty silence as Snart finally approached him, hooking his arm at Ray’s waist to help him to his feet and out the door. 

They walked longer than usual, Snart eventually half-dragging Ray as he began losing strength to the soreness in his leg. Ray bit his lip to keep from saying anything that would upset the other, which at this point felt like anything. He felt guilty for having set off Snart’s apparent night terror, although how he could have known was beyond him. Snart said so little unless Ray asked, he contended with himself as he snuck glances over at the other's stoic expression, and he didn’t talk at all about what had happened when he’d first been pulled away from his death, which Ray imagined was probably the source of the trauma. Although Ray supposed he himself was so concerned about whether to believe this Snart was real or not, maybe he hadn’t been doing a very good job getting to know Snart as he was now, instead of what he’d been before. It sounded sort of insensitive, now that he thought about it. After all, it had been a few weeks, and Snart was just as alone as Ray was all this time. 

“Raymond, you’re staring.” Ray blushed and ducked his head. Apparently he wasn’t being as discreet as he’d thought. 

“I just—I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had nightmares,” he sputtered. “I guess it’s a lot to deal with though—dying. Or, almost dying, and then coming back to life—although I guess you didn’t really die in the first place, not to make light of what you did for us.” Ray’s free hand flapped back and forth as he rambled his way through his thoughts. 

“Forget about it,” came the curt reply. “It was a one-time slip that won't be repeated, so don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” 

Ray frowned. “If you’re really Leonard Snart, you know I’m not going to do that.” 

“Let it go, Raymond.” The warning was low with irritation, and the grip holding him up tightened, although the tug in Ray’s gut was far from intimidated. 

“You can’t just _never_ sleep, Snart. It’s not good for you, and, since we’re a team, it’s not good for me either.”

“Since when did you even start believing I was actually who I said I am?” 

Ray blinked, steps stuttering as the question made him both sheepish and thoughtful. “I don’t know,” he admitted with a shrug. “I guess—it just makes more sense than believing Darhk or someone trying to kill me is making this much effort to keep me alive this long.” Even as a genius and with his suit, Ray felt like dead weight in their situation. 

For some reason, this drew an exasperated sigh from the man beside him. “Raymond, you can be such an idiot,” Snart grumbled, shifting to get a better grip on the man and drag him forward. But Ray noticed his lips twitching slightly upward until they made camp for the night. 


	4. Chapter 4

“You are _such_ an idiot, Raymond,” Snart grunted, half-dropping, half-guiding him to the ground as they finally made it back to their refuge. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

It had been maybe two months later, and after much debate (and begging), the two of them had made their way to the fortified edge of the Casino. Snart had refused point blank to take them into the plaza, claiming it would be suicide in Ray’s state, but had relented to getting close enough that they could reach the power grid, which was Ray’s main priority in the first place. Ray had already been stranded in time twice, and every day they went without being able to put out some sort of SOS beacon into the Time Stream was another day their team had no way of finding them and getting them out of this place. Maybe it was the poorly concealed desperation in his tone that finally made Snart give in and carefully navigate them so close to the belly of the beast. 

Ray understood why Snart had been concerned—the Neutralizers that had been roaming menacingly overhead further out were now replaced with border patrols with big guns and a “shoot first, ask questions later” mentality. Snart had managed to steal one of the impressive weapons, but it was hardly the best security: Ray’s bruises may have faded and his cuts healed, but his leg wasn’t mended quite right, making running and dodging a little tricky in his broad form. But in Ray’s mind, that was an even bigger argument for getting to the power grid and jumping his suit—he could make a signal for the team, and at least repair the lasers on his gloves to protect himself a little better until they could be rescued. 

Of course, on days like this—when they ran into a gang of mooks doing a sweep for guys hacking the system (exactly like they were doing), it seemed to support Snart’s side of the argument more: that his companion was a reckless idiot with no survival instincts and a bad leg. Snart had lagged behind with his newly-repaired Cold Gun, yelling for Ray to get back to the house while he held them off. Ray, meanwhile, had gone as far as the stairwell before putting on his gloves and firing off shots as the men, refusing to leave without his companion. It had resulted in some superficial, albeit painful, grazing to his already-damaged leg, before Snart had strategically frozen the ceiling to collapse over the gang and dragged Ray away. 

Rather than feel abashed, though, Ray remained obstinate. “You never could have taken all those guys on your own,” he insisted, the heel of his palm digging into his thigh to stymie the pain. “And now we know that the link works.” 

“Yeah, sure, now we know. Of course, if I had done it by myself like we’d _planned_ , we’d know without you trying to kill yourself again. You were practically a sitting duck out there.” 

“Now we can boost the signal from here and get back to the tea.” Ray practically bounced in place as he pressed on eagerly with his thoughts. “I can make some adjustments to the beacon, maybe hack into the security feed to fortify our position better.” He winced as his leg twitched, but refused to let the new wound dampen his excitement at the possibility of turning their luck around. 

As for Snart, he merely rolled his eyes, and upon feeling satisfied they hadn’t been followed, left his post at the door to crouch next to Ray, tugging at his newly-ripped pants. With the ongoing injuries Ray was sustaining, he’d been forced to forego most of his sense of privacy and personal space, although he still couldn’t help but flush as Snart’s fingers tickled his skin, causing goosebumps to form. 

Ray grimaced at the blood smeared over the thin fabric of his underwear before turning to watch Snart inspecting the wound. Ray may have been the smart guy in Gideon’s med bay, but in this sort of gritty triage scenario, Snart was definitely the more knowledgeable of the two of them. It was a little scary to watch him so cool and clinical about the damage, but also a little comforting, and 

Ray found himself trusting the man completely. 

As the pale, sticky leg was cleaned off and exposed to the air to dry, Ray’s brow arched in confusion as Leonard’s lips twitched in a fond, thoughtful expression. 

“What?”

Snart’s smirk grew slightly. “It looks like you’ll have a scar,” he replied, biting his lip. 

“And that’s funny because…?” 

The other man sighed, clearing his throat before turning his gaze back to Ray. “No reason. Looks like you’ll survive to be an idiot another day,” he added as he straightened, tugging a pair of pants from the rucksack and throwing them at Ray. 

Ray frowned, letting the moment go as he fumbled with the material in his hands. His focus became distracted, however, at the sight of the stain on Leonard’s shirt. “You’re hurt.” He moved to lean closer for a better look. 

“It’s nothing.” Snart didn’t fight though, as Ray’s fingers carefully peeled the layer of his shirt upward to investigate. Ray was keenly aware of Snart’s tension at being so exposed, at the numerous scars covering his torso being visible to others’ eyes, and the fact that he couldn’t remember the man shirtless before now made him believe that they weren’t simply random tokens from jobs on the wrong side of the law. Ever since he found them, had been let in on the secret of their existence, Ray had itched to trace the lines with his fingers, to comfort his friend. But even Ray recognized such an act as stepping over a line, and so he instead concentrated on carefully dabbing the cut clean, both of them tense with quiet, shallow breaths as Ray dried and swiped a liquid adhesive over the wound. “There we go.” He watched with a little disappointment as his words triggered the lithe fingers to gently push his own away and tug the shirt back into place. 

Leonard finally broke the silence by giving Ray a pointed look. “And that is the last time you’re leaving this place until I say so,” to which Ray just grinned in return, turning to his new project triumphantly. 

  
***  
  


Ray tilted his head curiously as he watched the furrowed brow of a sleeping Snart before shifting closer to the man. Despite having a feed into the Casino’s security and a well-defended safehouse, it had taken a while for Ray to gain back his trust and let him take sentry duty again so he could get some much needed shut-eye. With a better awareness of Leonard’s habits, Ray dutifully woke him up at the two-hour mark as requested. He also paid special attention to make sure the environment was conducive to getting those full two hours every time Leonard took a break, which had gradually built to their current arrangement, with Ray settled carefully beside the other man, hand lazily tracing along the fabric of his sleeve. The younger Legend had to admit it surprised him that Leonard was such a tactile person while unconscious, since he gave off such a cold vibe awake. Maybe it had to do with almost dying at the Vanishing Point, or whatever had happened before the team found him displaced. But regardless, it was satisfying to watch the gentle movements of Ray’s fingers allow the pinched features on Leonard’s face to relax, taking years from his appearance and bring a pleased smile to Ray’s own. It was really hard not to notice how handsome Leonard was like this, to combine it with his brains and protective nature and not find the whole package incredibly appealing. Not that Ray was thinking about things like that here; he was just making an objective observation, was all. 

Leonard shivered, grimacing as he pulled away from whatever was in his mind. Ray leaned closer to him, quietly whispering to soothe him back to sleep, but the nightmare came on too fast, jolting Leonard into consciousness and up from his curled position, headbutting Ray in the chin. 

The brunet winced momentarily, but set aside his own discomfort in order to focus fully on the pain and confusion that was obviously taking over Leonard. His hand covered the other’s, working to soothe the ache of his head, and Ray unthinkingly pressed a soft kiss to the red spot on his forehead in addition to his consolation. 

That magnetic blue gaze fixed on him, and Ray’s face flared with embarrassment at his actions. A color that only deepened with surprise as Leonard’s head tilted up and caught Ray’s chapped lips with his own. 

For a second, Ray thought of pulling away: Leonard couldn’t possibly know what he was doing, likely acting from the shock of his nightmare and disorientation of sudden transitioning from sleep to waking to a surreal future. But at the same time, Ray couldn’t deny that the moment was amazing, that he _wasn’t_ enjoying it. That despite the dry, cracked texture of their lips in a grotty apartment with mold in every color of the rainbow, being surrounded by Leonard’s warmth and strong hands pulling them closer as his tongue snaked its way to map the inside of Ray’s mouth…it was an overload of emotion that pushed his senses past their limit, his eyes stinging as he felt filled with a solace and intimacy that he didn’t realize he’d missed in this crap future city. He let out a needy moan and slid his own hands over Leonard’s shoulders, gripping them as hard as the moment he was in. 

When he couldn’t deny his need for air any longer, he grudgingly pulled back, panting as he finally met Leonard’s gaze. The man was giving him a strange look, and Ray gave a sheepish chuckle as his nerves caught up with him. “Uh, yeah. I guess that was kind of…” He bit his lip awkwardly.

Leonard’s face twisted into a pleased smirk, however, and he leaned in again. “Shut up, Raymond.” To which Ray was more than happy to oblige.


	5. Chapter 5

Ray was tinkering, a steady whirring of hands and mind and a tight but exuberant little smile as he focused intently on his project. Len had kept true to his word, restricting him to the safehouse: he'd go out alone whenever they needed to resupply, telling Ray to focus on his tech. Considering the man insisted he didn’t know when _exactly_ Ray had been saved in his past, Ray had no choice but to simply trust that they would be saved soon, and make up any new project to keep his mind off of the passing days. And so the space quickly filled with worked and reworked ideas and models and schematics. 

It was easier here, close to the Casino where security was routine and predictable for someone with a mind as meticulous as Len. And with the odd but comfortable domestic routine they’d settled into, Ray felt safe and hopeful as he watched his partner leave their high-rise hotel room at random hours in the day, returning with food or tools or new clothes, while Ray secured their defenses, or played with upgrade ideas for the Cold Gun. Ray had quickly fallen back to babbling happily when Leonard was around, while the formerly dead criminal amused himself with a deck of cards or cleaning his weapon. 

“Aha!” He shirked as Len’s gaze fixed on him chidingly over his exclamation, snapping his mouth shut in chagrin. However, his enthusiasm couldn’t be dampened as he held up his newest project proudly. Len quirked a brow, staring at the metal, before finally drawling incredulously, “A hanukkiah, Raymond? Really?” 

“I saw the date stamp on the tickertape at the Casino the other day, and managed to dig up some calculations on the calendar.” He beamed, the impassive expression watching him not fooling him in the slightest. “I thought we could use some holiday spirit. Come on, Len—it’ll be fun!” Ray could only vaguely recall the holidays on the Waverider during Len’s time as a Legend. He and Marty had cooked up latkes and applesauce, he remembered, lighting a candle and saying the prayers. Len, as best as he could remember, had lingered in the hallway, but mostly kept to himself, not unlike the rest of the crew. It wasn’t until Ray had consolidated all of the holidays together into one big celebration that the team had come together, long after Len was gone. But this year felt like having faith and family should be more important than ever, and he wanted more than anything for Len to be part of that. He was going to make sure of it. 

His companion scoffed at his excitement and went back to his game, but Ray didn’t miss the subtle changes to the safe house’s resources in the days leading up to the first day. Candles and matches appeared in a random pile of knick-knacks, and some gold foil. The food rations suddenly included a package of donuts and some frozen hashbrown-like product. Even a piece of scrap metal that Ray was able to bend and engrave into a functioning dreidel, although after a stretch of experimental rounds, Len, who had refused to play, threatened to freeze the thing if Ray didn’t stop singing the song every time he spun it. 

The best surprise had come in the form of a can of apple preserves that Len had brought in the night before Hanukkah began. Ray was practically bouncing as he held tightly to the aluminum container.

“You know, when we’re back on the Waverider, I’m going to make you my gran’s applesauce—it’s the most amazing thing you’ll ever eat, and the only thing you’ll ever want on latkes ever again,” he told Len with a grin. 

“I’m actually more of a sour cream kind of guy, but unfortunately dairy seems to be hard to come by around here.” Ray gaped at Leonard’s response, causing his trademark smirk to widen in expectation. 

“Sour cream on _latkes_? That’s awful!” Ray shook his head in disbelief. “You obviously have never had a real Hanukkah, Len, and I feel sorry for you.” 

“You don’t put sweet on savory, Raymond. But get some sour cream, maybe salsa...” 

“I can’t listen to any more of this—it’s criminal,” Ray retorted as he clasped his hands over his ears playfully, his smile broadening as he watched the expression on Len’s own face equally pleased, like this was a conversation they’d had before. Ray wondered if maybe it was, in the future. It left him with a warm feeling as he carefully set up the hanukkiah in the center of a long crate that acted as a table, placing each tiny candle in its slot and keeping the matches carefully sheltered from the ever-present moisture that saturated the air. He carefully divvied up the gold aluminum into strips to cover up the martini olives he’d been saving for this week, knowing Len would appreciate the effort, even if he’d tease Ray for it. He set the pieces back in the dried container by the dreidel, eyes shifting toward the rations that would be prepared tomorrow for the first night and then the crate by the beacon where he’d hidden Leonard’s gift. It was going to be a great holiday. 

  
***  


Ray kept throwing worried glances over his shoulder as he ran, huffing breathlessly from being out of shape in terms of running from bad guys as he tried to keep up with Leonard and ahead of the guards chasing them. He was so distracted that he didn’t even realize that Len was no longer in front of him until a strong hand gripped his shirt, jerking him sideways into a fire escape. 

“The Jump ship is parked up above us. Jax and Mick will be able to cover your back if you can just get to the roof. Take this and run—” he pushed the rucksack into Ray’s hands “—I’ll hold them off for you.” 

“What? No—Leonard, there’s way too many of them—” How had things gone so wrong so quickly? They were supposed to be appreciating the decorations Ray had put up, listening to Len grumble about Ray winning all of the golden olives (that he would say he didn’t want anyway, because who played for cocktail garnishes instead of chocolate?). He wanted to listen to Len tease him about singing carols, because Ray grew up in a predominately Christian (or at least secular) suburban town that only accommodated his family’s beliefs as far as singing songs at the school pageant that didn’t mention baby Jesus, and the tradition just kind of stuck (and Sleigh Ride was kind of catchy). He was supposed to light the Shamash, and say the blessing, and give Len his present, still tucked away in a secret spot amidst all of Ray’s junk. Not get caught in a raid and be chased across the ledges of what used to be Las Vegas and be faced with separation from the man he could say with complete honesty that he loved more than anything.

But Leonard wasn’t having any of his arguments, holding out his hand. “I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve to get them off my tail. You need to focus on getting to the roof.”

“No!” Ray’s chest squeezed tight as shots blasted nearby, blowing off chunks of wall on the other side of the door. “You’re coming with me.”

The plea was met with a quiet scoff and a bitter twitch of the lips. “It doesn’t work that way, Raymond.”

“I’m not just going to let you die here.”

The fierce gunmetal gaze fixed hard on him. “Raymond, if you don’t get on that ship now, I’ll be dead before we even get here.” The wide brown eyes stayed frozen in their pain. Ray understood that he needed to get back on the Waverider if he was going to find Leonard in the future, to save the man he loved from whatever time displacement was going to do to him, but leaving Leonard here meant that he might lose him now in the present (present-future? Whatever). He couldn’t stand the idea of the man sacrificing himself for him _again_.

His companion seemed to anticipate his ambivalence, because he gripped Ray hard and shook him. “Raymond, dammit. I can’t make it without you. _Please. Go._ ” There was an ache in his voice that forced Ray to concede, biting his lip and nodding stiffly as he closed the space between them to kiss the man desperately, trying to memorize every detail of their relationship in one moment. 

“I’ll come back for you,” he promised, blinking hard as he forced himself away and up the stairs alone. 

  
***  
  


Night had fallen, and for the god knows what day Leonard was still trying to get the damned cops off of his tail. He’d pulled further away from the grid, wanting to keep his gun functioning while allowing him to shake the mooks for chunks of time, but somehow they always turned up again and he was back on the run. He was half-grateful Raymond had escaped: he never would have made it this far on his bad leg, and it comforted Leonard to know that back in his time Gideon would be able to reset it properly. 

He’d taken up in a shithole close to the river’s edge, working to plot out his next move, but kept getting distracted, running his tongue against the cracked surface of his lips, taking deep breaths of the lingering scent of Raymond in his parka. He knew he’d done the right thing, getting Raymond back to the ship and maintaining the Timeline, staying behind so that he could find him brainwashed and broken as part of Darhk’s posse and get him back onto the Waverider. It was a weird cycle to think about, that the reason Raymond hadn’t given up on him may have been because he had already met him in the future and known he was able to be saved. All so Len could end up back with the past-Raymond two years later and save him from dying in a futuristic hellscape. 

Thoughts like that tended to hurt his head, so Leonard tried to brush them aside as often as possible. At least if he was going to die here, it would be as himself, not as somebody’s lackey. And if it was alone, it was because he’d saved someone he loved, just like at the Oculus. Sort of a Final Destination ending, he supposed, but there were worse ways to go. 

Of course, that didn’t mean he was just going to go out quietly—Leonard was a survivor, after all. The sounds of shuffling caught his ears, followed by the slamming open of a door and loud yells down the hall, and Len gripped his Cold Gun and moved to his feet, grateful that at least police seemed to have gotten worse at sneaking up on people over the years. He carefully pried open the remains of the window frame to create a larger hole, and slipped out of the room, down to the murky, ash-filled waters nearby. He stalked up the bank, checking doors for a set of stairs still intact in order to make his way back up the labyrinth of ruined buildings.

He followed an exit up a few levels before opening the door, finding himself face-to-face with a team of armed men. Not police-types, judging by their appearance, but definitely not friendly, considering the way shots immediately began firing in his direction. Len blasted out a line of ice before retreating into the stairwell, sprinting upward as he heard cries of pursuit. 

Bursting through the rooftop exit, Leonard raced toward the edge, only to find a gap too far for him to clear. He huffed in disbelief: luck just didn’t seem to be on his side today. He turned back to the door and aimed his gun at the gang now through the door and moving to surround him. Well, he always figured he’d go out with a bang. Hopefully he was close enough to the edge that his gun would fall into the river when he died, he thought vaguely as shots rang out—Captain Cold didn’t want any of these idiots to besmirch his legacy.

  
***  
  


Leonard’s eyelids were heavy as he dragged them open, mind hazy as he tried to recall when he’d closed them to begin with. As his body twitched with awareness, his gaze widened as he realized he was strapped to one of the chairs of the Jump Ship, a low grumble of a voice talking to him.

“—back, Sleeping Beauty.” Mick’s eyes flickered toward him, giving him a once-over before turning back to the controls. “Was wondering how long you were going to conk out for.”

“What happened?” Leonard groaned as he twisted his body in a stretch, hand slowly massaging the back of his head as he tried to gather his thoughts. “How’d I get out of there?”

“Time Grenade,” his partner explained. “Courtesy of Rip, though I don’t think he knows it’s missing yet.”

“Rip?”

“Yep—his hunch paid off. That Casino was a regular jackpot. You would’ve liked it.”

He stowed that information away for processing later. “So I take it you’re my Mick then.”

His bulky friend’s lip twitched in amusement as he let out a chuckle. “Honestly, you’d probably be dead if I wasn’t. Don’t think my past self could handle finding another you without Haircut practically shielding you with his body.”

Leonard’s eyes widened suddenly. It was somewhere around a week since Raymond should have made it back to the Waverider without him. “Raymond—is he—?” He had to be alive, obviously, but Leonard wasn’t sure what to ask about the man he remembered. How would Mick know if anything had changed?

“Your boy toy is fine,” Mick assured him with a smirk. “He’s been pretty distracted since you disappeared the way you did—got a little banged up from getting ambushed by whatever the hell that thing was trying to keep us out of the Time Stream. But Gideon’s patching him up in the med bay.” He let out a huff. “Damn idiot was practically going crazy to get us back here for you.”

He felt his lips twitch, but he was still too worried to allow himself to relax completely, throwing himself out of the seat as soon as the ship docked with the Waverider, speeding down the halls.

Raymond’s eyes were closed, but he was breathing steady. Even with the cuts and bruises, he looked a lot better than the last time Leonard had seen him—clean, his figure filled back in from proper meals, leg reset properly. Safe.

His feet crept closer of their own volition, Leonard just continuing to stare in relief. His stare flickered down to Ray’s covered leg, his fingers ghosting over the raised skin of an old scar in an intimate place that he'd traced lovingly many times before. A scar he’d watched form with his very eyes just a few months ago. 

Raymond’s bright brown eyes flickered open, drifting sideways and up toward Leonard's face, causing his expression to light up, radiating through the room. Leonard's chest swelled, and he felt like he’d taken his first real breath since he’d watched the man freefalling into the ugly river months ago, letting his head drop to tuck into the crook of the other man’s neck. 

“You’re okay.” Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who’d been worried, as Raymond’s voice seemed to crack slightly from the weight of his quiet words. Leonard curled closer as he felt the comforting touch of fingers combing through his dark scalp. “I was so worried. I thought—” 

“Yeah,” he chuckled softly into Raymond’s skin. “Me too.” 

“I tried to get back sooner, but that thing—and Sara and Rip—I could only sneak Mick out as it was—” 

Leonard shook his head, forcing himself to pull back to meet Raymond’s gaze. “I wouldn’t have left you back there alone. I’m not that easy to get rid of, Raymond.” 

The laugh that he’d been hoping for escaped from the Legend, and Leonard smirked. Ray just seemed to be basking, as if Len had hung the moon for him. It still made his stomach flop.

“I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, casting a significant glance at the state of Raymond’s face, “you just don’t seem to be able to keep out of trouble on your own. Someone’s got to keep an eye on you.”

“I’ll be okay,” the insistently upbeat man assured him, always assertive as he downplayed his own problems. “Now that we have you back here where you belong.” His face lit up again, and Leonard rolled his eyes to hide his internal preening over the enthusiasm.

“You’re hopeless, Boy Scout.” He winced slightly as his arm brushed over a bullet graze, causing Raymond to instantly begin fussing and forcing him into the seat next to him for Gideon to look over. Having missed futuristic medical treatment for so long, Len didn’t fight very hard, simply shifting his fingers to keep them twined with his boyfriend’s as he leaned back in the chair. 

There was a moment of quiet as both men relaxed, before the air seemed to cool and Leonard turned to see Raymond’s expression faltering slightly, lip pulling in the way it did when he was fumbling with how to explain bad news.

Considering they were both in the med bay, but together, and Raymond was prone to overthinking things, Leonard couldn’t imagine it was anything too extreme. “Spill it, Raymond.”

“You—it’s just—” Ray’s gaze touched the floor, before turning apologetically back to the other. “It’s been a week since we lost you. The candles, the applesauce, everything—we didn’t end up celebrating any of it. I mean, not that we can’t just do a team party late this year, I guess, but the calendar—and we didn’t even get to do it back in the future either—I made you a present even, and I just—”

Leonard smiled. It was so like Raymond. The man was the bright spot on the ship, pulling him into holiday spirit, of hours of making recipes from scratch, and even being in a hellish future world where he’d painstakingly carved out a piece of home and traditions that he didn’t even know they'd already shared, and yet he stammered out apologies like he’d somehow let him down. Like he possibly could have.

“Raymond.” He squeezed his fingers with a smile. “It’s fine. I promise I won’t tell if we light the candles late.” Ray’s face lit up, and Len couldn’t help but add, “but I’m still putting sour cream on my latkes.”

“Leonard!”

**Author's Note:**

> While I did do some research and speak to a few people who celebrate the holiday in different ways, I am goyim, and this is my first time writing Chanukkah or Judaism in general, so I hope I didn't offend anyone. While there are some "Christmas" traditions involved, I am in no way trying to erase anyone's faith or culture.


End file.
